


Happily ever... and then some

by ItsSweaterWeather



Series: Lucky F**king Couple [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, HEA fluff, M/M, Molly POV, Molly in vintage thrift!, Musgrave Hall scenery porn!, Post-TFP, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlock in a morning coat!, Sherlolly - Freeform, Wedded bliss, Wedding Fluff, basically all the fluff, basically location porn - sorry not sorry!, mystrade, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-03 17:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14000937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: This is dreamy, (mostly) unedited fluffity fluff & scenery porn. Srsly. Anyway, here it is. Take it or leave it. Or treat it like a dessert. On the surface, it's posh crème brûlée! When you break it all down though, it's just milk, cream, egg yolks, vanilla & lotsa sugar; basic but soooo yummy!If you choose to imbibe, Mycroft Holmes heartily recommends the 2006 Château Rieussec Sauternes. If you're feeling especially festive & super flush with cash, the 2001 Saint-Emilion will do nicely. Very nicely.***She drained her glass. A profusion of well-aged bubbles fizzed through her veins, blurring the edges of her low-grade melancholy. Not much to be done for it, she thought. The darker corners beckoned even when she forced herself into the light.A predilection for the subterranean environs of a morgue and the embrace of high-functioning sociopaths would do that to a girl.Well, one high-functioning sociopath, anyway.Molly turned her back on the darker corners and started for the tent.





	Happily ever... and then some

### Somewhere in Sussex. Sometime in September.

Mauve-colored clouds crept across the sky.  

They dipped low and hung close, angling for a better view of the proceedings. Molly nodded and toasted them with her Champagne flute. The clouds had every right to crash this party. Who were all these humans, anyway, making demands that the day be picture perfect? 

And who got to decide what picture perfect looked like anyway?

The fluffy smudges could stay. _Should_ stay. They lent a particular Holmesian touch to the day; just enough moodiness to keep the otherwise clear, azure sky from becoming too giddy. 

Impossible not to get giddy when three different kinds of cake awaited.  And cases upon cases of Champagne.

Voices peaked and rolled behind her, followed by the _pop!_  of more Champagne being opened. People so often mistook gunfire for a popping balloon or a back-firing car. The siren's call of kinetic friction forcing a fat cork from a thin bottleneck, however, couldn't be confused for anything but what it was: promise.

Too bad for the clouds, she thought. No bubbles for them. And no more oggling, either. The party had moved into a small tent erected over the gravel drive. All remaining festivities - which had the potential to last well into the evening, Molly had no doubt - would take place undercover, well away from any prying or potential rainmaking. 

Picture perfect.

She'd slipped out of the tent when the last of the hors d’oeuvres appeared, scooting round back of the house on peep-toed heels. She picked her way down the broken path, careful not to stub a toe on the uneven flagstones. That proved somewhat difficult maneuvering after the late end to their previous night. And the early start to the morning. And many, many celebratory glasses of bubbly. 

The clouds held no grudge. They rewarded her effort, parting to let sunlight slant between their cottony shoulders. It slid across the lawn, lighting up trees limbs and bouncing off of neighboring roofs. Given the season, high winds and pelting rain could’ve easily made a hash of the entire weekend. Instead, everything from tent to trail sparkled under the weight of mid-autumn's deep topazes and garnets and amethysts. 

Sussex was like a jewel box. No chilly gusts. No torrential downpours.  No residual sadness, either.

Weddings made powerful exorcists. 

She stopped at the low stone wall hugging the property line. A small field beyond lay fallow but skittered with life. Mice darted between the rows and sparrows chattered incessantly. Their squeaking surrounded her on all sides. As green as their respective corners of London were - Regent's out his front door, Clapham Common a stone's throw from hers - one still had to work hard to come under such a pleasing aural assault.  

Her lungs filled to bursting, unable to take in enough of birdsong and the wide, clean air. A hazy love for everyone and everything - even the troublesome bee dive-bombing her glass - floated, like weed pollen, in the golden rays. 

Earlier in the week, a section of lawn inside the wall had been mowed to a thick, spongy island in preparation for today. Now, two men in canvas coveralls made light work of setting it back to natural rights. They removed the small mismatched collection of chairs and began dismantling the bamboo bower.

“Oh…, do you have to?” she pouted. “I was kind of hoping you could leave it.”

One of the workmen shook his head apologetically, “S'posed to rain all day tomorrow, Miss. Even if the structure holds in the wind, them flowers won’t. They’ll be blown all over Sussex by midday.”

She scratched absentmindedly at a nonexistent itch above the hemline of her dress. Then higher. A low trick to be sure but she hadn't felt this glamorous since that random Thursday in May. Picture perfect... The bubbles and the memory made her pleasingly tipsy. Molly ran with it and played her odds. Perhaps Mr. Workman was also a _leg_ man. A bit of thigh might get her what she wanted. “Even so," she smiled, smoothing her full skirt back to a more demure length, "I’d like it to stay put if you don’t mind. I mean, you’re just going to throw the whole thing out anyway, right? Leaving it here would save you some work and a trip to the dumpster.”

After a minute of deep consideration, he shouted to his companion. "The bower stays!”

A nasal whine from the back of the lorry shot back. "Why?" 

"Lady wants it. Lady gets it."

Yes, she silently agreed, the lady did. Amazing what one got when one asked for what she wanted.

_ Go on. You say it first. Say it like you mean it. _

Today, Molly wanted the gorgeous bower. If the sun held out, then the ruffly, old-fashioned roses, the button-nosed anemone, and wispy asters would fade into a brittle, beautiful sepia-toned whisper. Should heavy rains blow in from the coast, the blooms would melt back into the ground, inky and soft; an offering of thanks to Mother Nature for such a picture perfect day. 

Molly didn't possess the requisite cool for paganism. As a lax Anglican, however, she felt if wise to play both sides in _this_ lifetime should someone have to put in a good word for the world's only consulting detective in the _next._

The workmen turned their attention to the threadbare carpets crisscrossing the ceremony area. Once rolled, the woolen tubes went back into the mudroom. A padlock slapped on the back door, same as the front. With any luck, the refurbishment plans would meet with the approval of the Mid Sussex District Council soon and work on Musgrave Hall would begin, in earnest, at the beginning of the new year. 

She skipped a hand along the jagged, lichen-covered stone and let her imagination roam. It settled on a section caved in by the weight of some rather rude trees. A curly-headed pirate ran amok on top of the wall, before so much had collapsed. He clambered up low branches and skinned his knobby knees. He sang made-up pirate songs at the top of his five-year-old lungs. He swatted at waxy magnolia blooms even after his mother shouted from the kitchen window for him to stop. 

He slayed an army of invisible dragons. 

The pirate's pig-tailed sister hung back, hidden in the shadows. Watching. 

Molly sighed. "Such a beautiful boy…"

All the trees had grown. So had the pirate, in a matter of speaking.

The sister, however...

A heavy ache bloomed under her sternum. Molly squeezed her eyes tight and rubbed her chest. Hard. “Not today,” she whispered.

The unpruned magnolia had breached the wall a decade ago at least. As had a cluster of unruly Japanese maples and the voluptuous beech. She smiled. The first time Sherlock had walked her around this wall, she could only identify the magnolia. Now, she knew common names for all the trees and plants nearest the house and whether they were invasive or welcomed.   

> “That overgrown mess at the edge of the lawn is celastrus orbiculatus. Invaders,” he whispered into her carotid artery. He'd propped himself against the crumbling wall and proceeded to spider long fingers around her waist.
> 
> “Mmmm… Amazing,” she purred, trying to make out where the orange berries of the bush began. Summer’s heat had gotten the better of his bespoke suiting and he'd removed his jacket. Molly's bare shoulders sank into the warm damp of his shirt, enjoying the way the fine cotton clung to his muscles. 
> 
> “What is?” he asked.
> 
> She sighed deeper into his embrace. “Hmmm…?”
> 
> “Amazing. What’s amazing?”
> 
> “You are.”
> 
> His chest puffed up, smug agreement forming in his diaphragm. Molly nipped the peacock before he had a chance to strut, “Yes. You. Are. Amazing —“
> 
> “Yes. I. Am,” he interrupted, his honey-colored voice dripping with pride.
> 
> “You know the Latin names for all these plants...and you don’t know that it’s the _earth_ that goes round the _sun._ ”
> 
> She didn't hear his low grumbling so much as felt it slide down her spine. Sherlock drew her earlobe into his mouth, kneading the flesh just hard enough between his incisors that she felt every sharp ridge. 
> 
> Molly shuddered in his arms. His body responded. She felt the length of him against her bum and a w arm, steady stream of air from his nose between her breasts. 
> 
> “I know the Latin terms for lots of things, Dr. Hooper."

Heat flooded her neck, her cheeks. She and Sherlock had come to Musgrave half a dozen times now. Exploring. Scheming. And each visit had ended with a christening of sorts to another part of the property. 

Sometimes, they pushed each other, quick and hard, Sherlock slamming into her against the mudroom door or the smooth, warm brick under the kitchen widow. 

Other times, they'd meet in the soft, patient middle. He’d lay his jacket beneath the low canopy of maple leaves. She'd pull him down with her, methodically undoing the buttons of his shirt, his hands slipping under her skirt or sliding between her waistband and skin.

And always without verbal preamble.  He’d raise one dark brow at her or flatten his palm into the soft swell of her stomach. A conspiracy. A plea. 

An invitation.

_ Yes._

They brushed lips and fingers over whatever bruises words had yet to heal.

She drained her glass. A profusion of well-aged bubbles fizzed through her veins, blurring the edges of her low-grade melancholy. Not much to be done for it, she thought. The darker corners beckoned even when she forced herself into the light. 

A predilection for the subterranean environs of a morgue and the embrace of high-functioning sociopaths would do that to a girl.

Well, _one_ high-functioning sociopath, anyway. 

Molly turned her back on the darker corners and started for the tent.

The clouds retreated behind her, the sky shimmering in the late-afternoon shades of jasper, turquoise, and giddiness.

## * * * 

The long table was set for dinner by the time she returned.  Simple, low vases of single-varietal bouquets dotted the center — the same asters and anemones and Chinese lanterns as on the bower.

Molly scanned the tent taking stock of the slim guest list.  She spied Mrs. Hudson chasing down the waiter, batting well-practiced eyelashes until he relinquished his full bottle of Champagne to her. 

Lady Elizabeth Smallwood and Sir Edwin had conspired to flank Mycroft and engage him in the perfectly, predictably synchronized conversation of the _deeply important_ English upper classes. Except... dear Lord! Was Mycroft smiling? She'd encountered enough of his thin-lined smirking to realize that the corners of his lips had pushed beyond the heavily-guarded DMZ. His cheeks looked perilously close to dimpling. 

Anthea took the opportunity to evade her boss's notice, skirting the edge of the conversation to check her phone. Her black and cream Bar suit almost outshone the wedding party, its hemline a bit higher than Mr. Dior had originally intended, her jacket cut a trifle lower at the neck. And chest.

Billy and Archie made dapper table companions. They sat across from each other, perfect gentlemen both — hanging spoons off the ends of their noses.

Her eyes circled three-quarters of the way round the tent before landing on her target. Not that he was difficult to pick out in a crowd of fifteen. Or fifteen hundred, come to that. She just liked delaying that moment when their eyes met and her heart missed several of its regularly-scheduled beats. 

There he was, speaking with John and balancing Rosie on his hip. Of course. 

Damp autumn air had done wild, fluffy stuff to his already unruly hair. The formal wedding attire had done incredible things to his long, lean frame. Sinful, really. Molly shifted in place. An uncomfortable, but not unwelcome, warmth settled low in her belly.

She really should go see if Mummy and Mr. Holmes needed anything... 

Sherlock swung Rosie to his opposite hip with practiced ease. And unparalleled grace. The toddler did wonders for her uncle's coloring. She shone like a soft, golden halo of infinite patience and love against his dark coat and hair. Although bored with their conversation, Rosie looked content with her vantage point. At home in the crook and safety of Sherlock's arm, she remained staunchly unmoved by either her father's or Mrs. Hudson's attempts to dislodge her.

Difficult for Molly to tell from where she stood just how much Sherlock had to do with Rosie's staying put.

As if to answer, Sherlock's eyes slid across the tent to find her. She felt the full spectrum of his blues on her skin, in her marrow, and deeper still. Minty and cool as ice. Warm and vast like the Indian Ocean. His mouth quirked up at the corner, a slow tug on the invisible cord stretched between them, before returning his attention to John and Rosie.

Molly whistled under her breath.

"Thank you."

“Oh!" she startled. "Greg! Hi! Sorry. Hi! Hello. I was a... just... a...”

_ Words, Molly. Use your words. _

But the damn things wouldn't come.

Greg's robust laugh lit a fuse in her cheeks. The flames spread to her neck and licked at the tips of her ears.

"No. No. Don't apologize. You go on admiring," he smirked. "I'll let you in on a little secret," he whispered over the lip of his pint, "I've indulged in much the same myself today."

Molly glanced over her shoulder to where the entirety of the British government held court.

"I see what you mean," she said, turning back to the DI. "So then, in the case of the well-dressed Holmes brothers..."

"I'll keep a weathered eye on the elder," he paused to drain his glass, "and you maintain tight surveillance on the younger."

"For the rest of our lives, Greg. The rest of our lives." 

"Hpmf. Amen to that. Molly." 

**Author's Note:**

> Who's ready for some London scenery porn?! Two more quick chapters to come.
> 
> In the meantime, I can't decide if WSSH looks best in blue shirt or white (PSOS is off the table for the next chapters. I mean, really, that's just gilding the damn fine lily). Can't decide on Hélène Darroze or Sketch (no, not the pink room; the Michelin-starred one). Can't decide if Hemingway and Einstein make a good couple (that's not code). Can't decide on the 2000 or the 2001 Saint-Emillion. Can't decide if this confection calls for sex.


End file.
